Baby and Bulldogge

On August 8, 2012, we welcomed Owen Martin Gares into this world, at 9 pounds 3 ounces and 21 3/4 inches long:

Or some of us did.  Others of us aren't so sure that a welcome is in order, unless it is of the "hello you must be going" variety.

Dorothy has actually been quite good on the whole.  Her dad had to get stern with her when we first brought Owen home, because she thought he might be a squeaky toy for her.  Once stern words were said, however, she seemed to realize that Owen is a tiny human requiring special treatment.

Dorothy was depressed, but now she is perhaps feeling a little better about things:

The thing that amuses me the most about her behavior is that at night when Owen starts to cry loudly, Dorothy hightails it out of the bedroom and goes and lies downstairs on the couch, until the crying stops, and she comes back.  She does not find his wails to be a pleasant, pear-shaped tone!

The cats for the most part are rather indifferent to their new baby brother.  Posy completely ignores him; and Plum is only interested in Owen's equipment, such as the cribs and strollers and whatnot.

We are all going through a period of adjustment, but are glad Owen is finally here!

Dorothy thinking back to when times were merry:

Laundry Day

Both Plum and Posy have new favorite places to sleep:  in two plastic laundry bins that are kept up in our bedroom--our bedroom which gets quite hot during the day when the air conditioner is not on.  I'll go upstairs and it will be hot and stuffy and pretty much unbearable, and there are both cats reclining in plastic like it was the most comfortable place on earth.  And of course, Plum usually chooses the smaller bin, while Posy chooses the larger.  Here they both are wishing the paparazzi would just leave them alone:

Waiting

Dorothy’s brother is not late yet, technically, since my due date is in a few days.  However, I had it in my head that since his parents are both early people in general—arriving unfashionably early to anything from the workday to the time one feeds the pets—the little guy would arrive sometime in the twenties of July.  This did not happen.

Because of my ADVANCED MATERNAL AGE, I have had weekly ultrasound images of the fine fellow, and in each one he seemed increasingly more comfortable, sucking his thumb and looking pleased as punch to be where he is, and oh excuse me, he’d like to stay longer for the ultrasound photo but he has some ribs to kick and a bladder to headbutt.

All this is to say that I no longer have confidence that he will enter this world in a timely fashion, and time is ticking for him to enter it punctually by the due date.  Luckily for me, there is such a thing called inducement, and we just might be resorting to that.

People with children tell us to enjoy this time by ourselves, rug-ratless, and we are trying to, although it is hard to enjoy anything when one moves like a hippo in stilettos, and it is now uncomfortable for me to sit and lie down.  (Which just seems wrong!  Sitting should always be comfy, as should a full recline.)  And then of course although Sean hasn’t joined me in hippo-dom, he has to listen to me moan about it. 

So there we are.  I will be happy to meet our guy face to face, instead of head to bladder, and – call me a curmudgeon – will  also be glad to no longer have my pregnancy be an invitation for strangers to talk to me on the street.  And call me mom.  On the flip side, I do admit to enjoying the fact that on the crowded train ride home, someone will usually give me a seat (although those someones are almost always young women.  Chivalry is dead).

Meanwhile, Posy is enjoying sleeping in the baby’s room, despite its pet gate, Plum can’t resist sharpening his claws on all of Sean’s furniture, especially the couches, and Dorothy is still OCD with the yard, even though she comes in with lizard legs—all wall to wall bumps from feisty mosquitoes.